


(De)vices

by HouseOfFinches



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Sex, Shameless Smut, Shower Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 09:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13521351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HouseOfFinches/pseuds/HouseOfFinches
Summary: More smut?





	(De)vices

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll be going through and editing the last few things I’ve posted shortly.  
> Forgive any errors until then!  
> Also I think I need a prompt because I am reading The Vision and it makes me want to make everything so dark :(

There was no specific time designated for their nightly meetings, no set hour for her to silently unlock his door with the red tendrils of her fingers, or for him to phase into the dark of her room.

Tonight, however, he caught himself conscious of each minute seemingly passing slower than the allotted sixty seconds. _Impatient_ wasn’t how he defined himself, and yet he was pacing, the confines of his room feeling oppressive for the first time in his life.

He and his teammates had parted only half an hour ago, the late summer sun still setting, an orange glow along the horizon, the safety of night tantalizingly out of reach. The evening was warm, a hazy heat lingering beneath the purpled clouds.

Perhaps, just this once, he might go to her before the blanket of dusk settled, before the stars bestowed the false security of their gauzy light. He knew the way to her room well, having walked—and phased—the path there often, always covered by the shroud of night.

Once the thought of seeing her was in his mind he could not shake it, it was implanted into his forethought, exasperated by that impatience that wore away his sensibilities.

Before he’d given his body permission, his atoms lightened (a loss of electrons, an oxidation), his being falling lightly with the pull of gravity (an acceleration of 9.8 meters per second squared, and yet his heart felt heavy with anticipation, incongruent).

He found himself in her room, the familiar hint of smoldered incense and perfume mixed with something humid, the air dense with water from her shower.

It was rare she was unaware of his presence, her mind unconsciously keeping tabs on the space around her, an invisible radar attuned to an ever-present fear of threat.

And yet he observed her, nude in the shower, the citrus of her shampoo growing stronger the closer to her he drew. It was these moments, when she was unburdened with the roles she felt obligated to play, she appeared so light, graceful and feminine in the simple task of washing her hair.

The room’s tile was white, clean and crisp, making her pale skin peach in contrast. He appreciated the sight of her, relaxed, the suds coursing white rivulets along her curves, pouring over her breasts and dipping along her hips.

The image of her was classical, marble stoned, statuesque, like he was an appraiser gazing upon the crowning piece of his gallery. His fingers ached to feel water slick against her skin, to feel her heat emanate into his chest as he pulled her close.

It occurred to him then that he might run his hands through her hair, feel the pelting drops saturate her waves. He could join her in this routine, in the removal of the day’s weight, maybe even aid in her relief.

The green of his sweater faded away, as quick in its disappearance as it was its formation. Soon, too, went the rest of his attire, the simple façade he wore to blend, to assimilate, to say, _yes, look, I also wear blended fibers to cover my body. How human._ But with her there was no need for costumes, no need to question the meaning of his existence. With her it was simple: she was his heart, and he was certain she’d conjured him up a soul one night, when he felt that heart grow heavy with love.

He entered the water’s spray behind her, letting his hands gently come to her shoulders. She jumped slightly under his fingers, sighing _Viszh..._ before leaning back into him, the bare skin of her back hot where it met his chest.

Easily she relaxed into his embrace, his hands following the beck along her body, fingers gliding slow over her breasts and settling at her hips.

“You’re early,” she whispered, her fingers dragging up along his thighs and hips, a teasing course he knew she made to measure his response.

He brought his lips to her neck, reveling in the smell of her shampoo, the way her skin glossed, the tile’s reflection making her as incorporeal as the seraph she was.

“I thought you might like some company,” he replied, letting his hands drift lower, dipping along the curve of her thigh. She arched into him, an invitation, and he was happy to oblige, moving his fingers upward, inward, to sink them into the damp folds of her core. Even in the shower she was hot, burning around him as he worked her.

Her body was not new to him, though she wasn’t hard to learn: he liked the way her moans changed, the way her breath hitched and broke the closer she came to release, the way she ground into him desperately, greedily. There was a pride, he discovered, in wielding this power. Her fingers could rip apart the world, but here he had her, whimpering and shaking beneath his own.

She was close, her nails digging into the skin of his forearms, her backside pressed firmly against his length. He wanted to see her come undone, yet selfishly he wanted more, wanted to experience her with more than just fingers.

She groaned in protest when he pulled away, her brow drawing in confusion with a hint of irritation. He guided her against the wall, saw as understanding spread across her face as he knelt before her. Tentatively he lapped at her, her folds soaked with water and arousal, her core searing against his mouth.

He looked up to watch her, her head tilted back against the white tile, the tendrils of her hair darkened with water, stuck wildly along her neck and her chest. And there it was, that power, that rush that came with knowing within moments of working his mouth and tongue against her, of sliding his fingers inside her, she would come undone at his will.

A murmur of Sokovian slurs, his name broken along the vertex of her breath, bracing herself against his shoulders, she came. She shivered, half cold, half spent, and he stood to pull her against him, to warm her in the water that still rained above them.

“Mmm,” she hummed, a contented throaty sound that reverberated against his chest. He stroked her hair, admiring the way it clung to her, the way the shade was deepened in the deluge.

Her hand ran down his chest, along his stomach, finding him still hard and ready. She gripped him, in a way that was self-assured and steady, in a way that reminded him that she too enjoyed that power.

“What do you want?” She asked, knowing full well the answer. He knew what he would tell her, what he would say.

“To be inside you.”

And he knew that he would leave out the rest.

_To share this forever._  
_To make you moan my name through each mundane task.  
To make you feel as I feel._

And she complied, letting him press her against the cold wall, guiding him into her, wrapping her legs around him and encouraging his thrusts. Again he listened to her moans, felt her breath against his neck. It was easy to relinquish that power to her, to lose himself entirely in her, this _euphony_ , this melding. He could do this a thousand times and it would never be enough.

He balanced her weight against his hips, using it to his advantage, the angle forcing him deep, reckless. She arched into him, an encouragement, a beckon to give in, to let go. And it was the sight of her, skin cream and pink, slick body wrapped around his, that pulled him to the edge. He gripped her, too hard, he knew, _too hard_ , but he was sure she might slip away permanently while the world faded to blissful obscurity for just a moment.

“Viszh,” she breathed, lulling him back to reality, her arms still linked around his neck.

“Hmm?” His mind was clouded, a product of endorphins, hormones, the neuro-synapsis firing too quickly.

“I still need to condition my hair,” she grinned.

Certainly he could help with that, too.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
